


By miracle or by coincidence

by chamyl



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Crowley is a lovable dumbass and we stan him, Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Mutual Pining, Sharing a Bed, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Touch-Starved Crowley (Good Omens), World War II, a smidge of angst, feat. Aziraphale's forearms, short and sweet, snake on a plane, that was almost the title of this fic I'll have you know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-16 15:36:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21273542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chamyl/pseuds/chamyl
Summary: World War II is raging; Aziraphale decides to become a field medic.Crowley thinks that's a really bad idea, so he goes ahead and one-ups the angel with a really bad idea of his own.





	By miracle or by coincidence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kazeetease](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kazeetease/gifts).

> Original idea by [Kazeetie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kazeetie), who was looking up the origin of [gremlins](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gremlin) as mischievous creatures who sabotage aircrafts and very correctly pointed out it was such a Crowley thing to do, and then things went downhill from there because we scream a lot on the M25 (the server, not the road, though I’m sure there’s a lot of screaming on the road too).

On second thought, maybe he’ll go to sleep for another hundred years.

Crowley groans to himself. _If only_. There is no sleeping in sight for him in the near future. He has to be up and about because, after a very close encounter with a bunch of half-witted Nazi spies, a certain angel has got it into his thick, ethereal skull that he needs to help more during this trying times. Give a more hands-on kind of support to the poor, helpless humans. Crowley would insist the poor, helpless humans thought everything up themselves and can deal with it, but he can recognise a stubborn angel when he sees one.

In short, World War II is in its raging stages and Aziraphale has decided to become a field medic in France.

“I’ll let him discorporate, see if I don’t.” Crowley mutters to himself, already knowing that’s a big fat lie. Aziraphale had been drunk as a skunk when he told him – he’d hiccupped and recounted his short meeting with Gabriel, how the archangel had laughed in his face when he informed him about the atrocities of war.

“He said, he said…” Aziraphale had drawled. “He said everything that happens is part of the Great Plan and that I have to relax. _Relax!_ People are killing each other, Crowley...”

Then he’d promptly fallen asleep in the chair he’d slumped into and Crowley had left, locking the door behind him, knowing very well that Aziraphale was about to do something very, very idiotic.

That’s how he found himself infiltrating the Royal Air Force in Benson, South Oxfordshire. Couldn’t let Aziraphale be an idiot all on his own, now could he?

The first thing he noticed was that the men there were very, very young. Barely more than boys, really.

The second thing he noticed was that officers sat on plush chairs, discussed among themselves, and then sent the boys on frail little planes heading south-southeast.

The third thing he noticed was that often these planes didn’t come back.

And there it is. His loophole.

He finds out quickly that the little planes are as easy to break as they look. A sock stuffed in the right place, a little snap of scissors, and the flimsy aircraft won’t leave the ground for days. Perfectly acceptable demonic work – causing a lot of frustration among pilots and expensive repairs. Sure, its side effect is that no more boys will fly to their death anymore, but his superiors need not know that, do they?

He hates turning back into a snake, but it’s what he starts doing every night. It’s just a lot easier, especially when he makes himself smaller. So far out of the city, nobody pays any attention to the tiny black snake slinking around the station, not even when it makes its way around and inside the small planes. They have much more important matters to worry about.

“Looks like an adder. Never saw one so dark, though.” One of the boys says, pointing at him. Crowley is quite sure his name is James. He crawls away a bit faster.

“Is it poisonous?” His friend asks.

“_Venomous_.” James corrects him. “Don’t worry. They don’t bite a lot. Lazy little critters.”

Crowley has no fingers to make obscene gestures with.

_I’m sssaving your sssilly life, you sssilly kid._

Demons don’t need to sleep, but Crowley had got quite accustomed to it, before coming here. As the months go by, he becomes more and more sluggish. He spends his days disguised as an incompetent low rank officer – nobody knows who put him in that position, nobody knows how to get rid of him, nobody cares enough – and his nights as a snake, sabotaging as many planes as he can possibly get to.

Silly-kid-James spots him another few times, and he even starts saying _hullo _when he sees him slinking by. Crowley estimates he might be eighteen – in a couple of years, maybe. Too young, way too young.

He blames it on the exhaustion when, after messing with yet another aircraft, he falls asleep wrapped around an undercarriage leg. Just a small nap, he tells himself. He just needs to close his eyes for a moment.

When he opens them again, it’s because he’s cold. Really bloody cold. Freezing winds are blowing in his face and a loud whooshing sound alerts him something has gone horribly wrong. It’s a good thing he’s a snake, really – if he were human right now he would have lost his grip and fallen off the plane. As he is, his body stays tightly wrapped around its rod as he looks down. Wow, that sure is a lot of water down there.

_Sssea? _He hisses to himself.

That’s when it hits him: the plane is flying. The plane he’s clinging to is flying. The plane which he doesn’t remember _at all _whether he fucked up with before falling asleep.

He’d scream, but what would that help?

* * *

Aziraphale is distracted from his duty by a weird feeling he hasn’t experienced in a while. A small, familiar tug in his chest. His senses are telling him that a demonic presence is nearby. He sighs. They don’t need any more trouble here; things are already hard enough as they are.

He finishes changing the bandages around a soldier’s wrists and stands up, straightening his jacket. Well. If there’s smiting to be done, he’ll get to it. He’s been keeping everyone in this base alive by the skin of his teeth and he won’t let some random hellish creature ruin his work.

He follows the tug, and it leads him to a plane that just made an emergency landing near their base. He spots the pilot – a very young man with a mop of sandy blond hair by the name of James. He can’t be a demon, can he? Aziraphale gives him a once-over. No, he’s just a boy. Then, the angel turns his attention to the plane.

He steps closer, and that’s when he spots him: a tiny black snake wrapped around a rod, near the wheels, almost frozen solid.

“Crowley—!” He drops to his knees, reaching out to touch him without thinking twice. He’s so cold. Aziraphale can be sure he isn’t dead only because if he were his little snake body would have vanished from this earth. “Oh, you silly old serpent, what happened to you?”

There is no reply, but the snake starts shaking like a pitiful leaf against the warm palm of his hand. Aziraphale unwraps him little by little, then unceremoniously stuffs him inside his jacket, over his heart, where it’s warmer, and makes his way back to his tent in a hurry.

How does one warm up a snake? The first thing Aziraphale does is gather him in his palms, bringing him up to his lips, and breathing warm air over him, like he’d do if his fingers were cold. It sort of works, a little. But he becomes light-headed way too soon and has to stop. He should probably warm up as much surface of his body as possible. It’d be ideal if he could wrap him around something hot, like a water pipe. Needless to say, there are none of those where they are.

However, he has an arm, and his arm happens to be warm enough.

Aziraphale shrugs off his jacket and sits down on his bedspread. He pushes up a sleeve and wraps Crowley around his forearm. When he’s done, he strokes his cold scales with his other hand.

“I’d be terribly sorry about this, Crowley, but really, this is your own fault. What were you even doing—” he’s interrupted by a big yawn that catches him by surprise. Exhaustion is creeping up on him, and he unbuttons the first two buttons of his shirt as his body begins to sag. There is a certain point of tiredness where sitting in the same spot for more than a few minutes will put you right to sleep, and Aziraphale has reached it and surpassed it a week ago.

Maybe the world will be fine without him for an hour or two. He’s so, so tired. Besides, an old friend is in need of his help right now.

* * *

When Crowley comes to, he finds himself wrapped around something warm and soft and lovely. He’s groggy as all hell, but then again he almost froze to discorporation. He’ll consider himself very lucky if he gets away with nothing but a killer headache.

It takes him a while to realise it’s an arm. He presses the side of his face into the crook of an elbow, where it’s warmer still. Oh, but it’s so _nice_. Unconsciously, he tightens himself around the limb, basks in the softness of the skin, feels the strong muscle underneath.

But where… _who_…

He sticks out his tongue, tasting the air. All at once, he’s completely awake: that’s his angel’s smell. Well, not _his _angel, but—oh, you get it. Crowley’s been arse over tit in love with this angel for a few thousand years, so it’s _his_ angel alright. At least in the privacy of his own head.

He lifts his head and is greeted by the sight of Aziraphale lying on his back, snoring softly, his neck exposed and his curls ruffled. Crowley looks back down at the arm he’s wrapped around and realises this is more skin than Aziraphale has shown in centuries. It might be because he’s in the form of a snake right now, but the angel looks absolutely edible, soft and warm and the best thing Crowley has ever laid his damned eyes on. Okay, fine – it has nothing to do with him having the form of a snake; he thinks such things of Aziraphale all the time. Well. Nobody has to know.

The temptation to turn back into a man-shaped creature is strong. But he won’t. Because then there’d be two men sleeping in Aziraphale’s tent, and that would cause all sorts of trouble. Besides, they’d have to talk, and he’d have to explain himself, and Crowley doesn’t really want to do that yet. He’d rather bask in the comforting nearness of Aziraphale’s body for a moment longer, take in the small sounds the angel makes in his sleep, fill his eyes with him without having to look away – even though it makes his little charred black heart pound in his chest. It’s fine. It’s a pleasant, bittersweet kind of ache.

So, there are no angels and no demons in this tent. There’s only one man, fast asleep. A field medic whose skills are rumoured to be downright _magic_, and whom many soldiers owe their life to. And, wrapped around his arm, there’s a little black adder who flew in all the way from Benson, South Oxfordshire.

And maybe it’s a small miracle, maybe it’s just a coincidence. But, for a couple of hours, the fighting around them really does stop, the world stays silent for a little while, and they’re both allowed a well-deserved nap.

**Author's Note:**

> Coming up next, a TRUCKLOAD of smut and fluff I’ve been working on for a long time now. Stay tuned if that’s your cup of tea ☕


End file.
